Rubens. I grieve to hear it. But what of your English sovereign? His Majesty, Charles the First (I was ambassador to his Court, you may remember, from my royal friend, Philip of Spain) would stand by my easel for hours, watching me at work, and discoursing to me of art. Doubtless, your sovereign shows like grace to our brethren of this later time?
A DESIGN FOR AN ALBUM.
The artist who gives up his time to drawing in albums is like a midshipman on half pay—gets “nothing a day and finds himself.”
A. Durer. Nay, you are modest, my Rubens. For the Liebe Deutsche Schule, I must speak for you. Not Charles alone—but the Gonzaga of Mantua, Duke Albert, Philip the Spaniard, and the queenly Medici, gloried in calling you their friend and counsellor.
M. Angelo. They did not honour Art—Art honoured them. How often have I told that hard truth to our Holy Father, fiery old Julius! He cuffed his Chamberlain once, for denying it. But for my own part, I never much affected your kings and great folks.
This is Jack Sparkles, who used to be such a thorough pre-Raphaelite, as we came upon him “at work” the other day—at least he called it so. He said he had come to the conclusion that “painting was, after all, more or less a matter of memory, and that he was studying skies!!”
Rafael. Thy noble nature disdained such shelter as we weaker and more luxurious spirits were fain to take under their escutcheons. And our Leonardo here—Francis, seemed never so great a king as when he picked up thy pencil, oh, my friend, lord not only of thine art, but of all knowledge!
